once they have accepted you as one of their own,” Sedgewick pointed out. “The Earl is regarded with love and respect by the people around here. I’ve found that much out. They have a tremendous loyalty to the Chevingtons. Why, I’d lay you odds that that young woman in there could find out in a few well-chosen questions what you and I have been idling here trying to discover for over a week.” At his companion’s dark look, he waved a quieting hand. “No, no, don’t worry, I am not suggesting that you enlist her help in asking the questions. I am merely saying that if you are known to be her fiancé, they will answer you, too—not as readily, perhaps, but far more quickly and easily than they have answered me so far.”
“That would not be difficult, since you and I have learned virtually nothing. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been out on that damnable heath again this evening. And I would have found them tonight, too,” he burst out irritably, “if it hadn’t been for that blasted girl! They were right there. They fired at me.”
“Trust me. Once you reflect on it calmly, you will see that running into Miss Ferrand was a godsend.”
His companion snorted derisively. “This is absurd. This time your scheme simply will not work.”
“Why not? At the moment, you are the only obstacle.”
“Well, to begin with, what if one of these people recognizes me? I mean, we do move in the same circles. I might have seen them at parties. What if one of them says, ‘Hallo, Rawdon,’ when my name is supposed to be Mr. Emerson, or whatever it was she made up.”
“Lassiter, I believe,” Sedgewick supplied. “It’s very unlikely. You have been out of the country for four years, and you weren’t Lord Rawdon when you left, you were still plain Benedict Wincross, with another heir between you and the title. You have been back only a few months, and you know as well as I do that you never go to parties. Besides, these people have been rusticating down here for the past few months. Miss Ferrand said so. They would not have been anywhere in London to see you. And even if someone did realize who you were, you could always make up some faradiddle about a secret engagement. Secret engagements are always handy things.”
“Particularly for those who don’t have to participate in them,” Benedict said sourly. “Since having the whole scheme blown sky-high by someone recognizing me doesn’t bother you, what about the fact that we are placing our trust in this chit about whom we know nothing? There isn’t a chance in hell that she won’t somehow give the game away.”
“She has every reason not to. She wants her family to believe that you are her fiancé as much as—or more than—we do. She will do her utmost to maintain that illusion.”
Benedict grimaced. “Even with the best goodwill, she can still make a mistake.”
“She seems a bright enough girl. Not lacking in spunk, either. I can’t picture her giving it away through fear or timidity.”
“No.” Even Benedict had to give a reluctant grin. “There’s little likelihood of that. Still, I doubt she is accustomed to such deception.”
“What?” His friend looked at him with comic dismay. “Is this Benedict Wincross speaking? The man who swore to me four years ago that all women are steeped in treachery?”
Benedict had the grace to flush. “They are taught to deceive from the cradle, and you know it. I warrant that even Bettina, the best of women, has led you a merry dance from time to time.”
Sedgewick chuckled, seeming not at all disturbed by this description of his wife. “Indeed, that she has. Thing is—I rather enjoy following your sister’s steps, you see.”
“It is the grand scale of the deception that I doubt she could maintain. False smiles and a few sweet lies are a far cry from maintaining a fiction for days before all one’s relatives. Moreover, this woman seems more—direct, shall we say?—than most.”
“Perhaps. But, still, I think she is clever—and saving oneself from the tooth-and-claw of a vicious aunt is no mean motivation.”
“Perhaps she is capable of such pretense, but how the devil am I supposed to act moonstruck about a woman whose every word seems designed to raise my hackles? I have not been with that woman for two minutes running without wanting to wring her neck.”
“Just look at her as you did at Annabeth,” Jermyn retorted unfeelingly. “For God’s sake, Benedict, this playacting is vital to the existence of our network. You cannot let that whole group of men, all our efforts, be destroyed just because you don’t like a woman.”
“Dammit, this isn’t a mere whim of mine! This trumped-up story will not work!”
“What if it does not? We know nothing now, and our entire network is in grave danger of being destroyed. Not to mention the fact that we obviously have a very clever enemy among us who could be bringing in more enemies through the very channel we established. How will it be any worse if you are discovered to be an impostor? How much less could we know? How much more could our network be destroyed? How much more danger could our country be in?”
Benedict gazed back at him for a long moment, caught by his argument. Finally he said in a truculent voice, “I don’t want to waste my time when I could be out looking for the smugglers.”
“We both know this way of looking for them will be faster and easier.” Sedgewick paused, then raised an eyebrow. “Or is it that I’m wrong— Perhaps you are dragging your heels not because you dislike the woman…but because you like her too much? Is that why she stirs you up so much? Is that why you are so determined to avoid being around her? Because she makes you feel things you thought were long dead?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Benedict said roughly, tossing his cigar down on the driveway and grinding it out savagely. “Bloody hell! All right, I will do it. But, by God, Jermyn, you better be right about this. Otherwise, Gideon will be lost.”
He turned without another word and strode back into the inn.
* * *
STILL FEELING CHEERED by the warm drink within her and by Mr. Sedgewick’s sympathy, Camilla turned to the almost Herculean task of setting her appearance to rights. She could well imagine what both her aunts would say if they saw her looking like this.
As soon as the maid brought in a pitcher of water and a basin, as well as rags and towels, she stripped off her filthy clothes and scrubbed away at the mud with a wet rag. When she had managed to rid herself of nearly all of the dirt, she put on clean undergarments from her trunk. As she dressed, she thought about the inevitable gossiping the servants of the inn would indulge in. No doubt by tomorrow it would be all over the village that Lady Camilla had arrived here last night looking like a hoyden, covered with mud and with a strange man in tow.
It would really be better, she realized, if that loathsome Benedict person did agree to pretend to be her fiancé. At least it would explain his presence in her carriage. If she told the real story, Aunt Lydia would go into near hysterics about the danger she had been exposed to, and Aunt Beryl would find it a golden opportunity to lecture her on her foolish, heedless ways and the danger into which they could lead her. It was enough to make her hope that Mr. Sedgewick would be able to talk Benedict into it.
Of course, it would be awful having to pretend for several days that she was in love with him and wanted to marry him—indeed, it was daunting to think of even having to be in his presence that long. She was quite sure they would have difficulty not getting into a roaring argument every few minutes.
